


Fylleangst

by the_moonmoth



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Drunkenness, F/M, Morning After
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-21
Updated: 2013-02-21
Packaged: 2017-12-03 04:46:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/694319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_moonmoth/pseuds/the_moonmoth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little bit of silliness, thanks to my house guest ownsariver ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fylleangst

**Author's Note:**

> "Fylleangst" is a Norwegian word that I have been introduced to quite spectacularly this week by my good buddy **ownsariver**. It roughly translates as "drunken dread", i.e. that feeling you get when you wake up the morning after and can't quite remember what (or who!) you've done...

The Wintermas festival had been going on all week to mark the coming of the night. The sun would not breach the horizon now for some months, and to console themselves, the northmen let the alcohol flow freely. Sansa was happy to preside over the traditional festivities from inside the safety of Winterfell's walls, but she had not partaken in either the high spirits or the drinking... that was until last night, when Sandor had got progressively more interested in one of the kitchen girls serving at the feast. She hadn't wanted to watch it happen, and yet she couldn't look away, and the only thing that had managed to numb the longing that it was her sitting there in his lap with her laces dangling and his big, warm hands wandering up her back was the strong winter ale she had brought in from the Vale.   
  
She must have drunk deeply, because as the sounds rising up from the yard below her window finally roused her, Sansa's head was still swimming. Rubbing her eyes, she tried to remember how she had got from the Great Hall to her chambers, hoping grimly that she had not made a scene in front of any of her bannermen. Her hand felt sore, and she looked at it muzzily. The knuckles were red and a little swollen, as if she had banged them. Carefully, she tried to stretch her limbs, to catalogue any other mysterious injuries. Her thighs ached a little, as though she had been riding - but she hadn't taken her mare out into the wolfswood for several days. What on earth had happened to her last night?   
  
And then she became aware of the deep, even breathing coming from the other side of the bed.  
  
Slowly, and with a sense of mounting dread, she rolled over onto her other side and squinted at her bedmate. Sandor lay sprawled on his back, naked to the waist, where the bedsheets provided some haphazard protection of his modesty. She blinked a few times in utter incomprehension. The candles had long gone out, but there was just enough light in the greying sky for her eyes to make out the long, hard torso of her master-at-arms, the smoothly defined ridges of his chest and stomach, the inviting line of muscle that started above his hip and disappeared beneath the rumpled sheets.  
  
"Oh," Sansa said softly to herself. A series of blurry images unfurled in her mind. Leaving the Great Hall; running into Sandor and that... that  _harridan_  in the flickering torchlight of the corridor; wondering distantly if the sudden red rage that descended on her was what Sandor felt like when he fought; the shock of her own dainty fist connecting with his jaw; the floor swaying as someone carried her; the air prickling as someone undressed her; and pleasure, like a single blindingly bright point in the northern night as she failed to remember all the reasons she could not give herself to Sandor Clegane.  
  
Looking at him now, even sick as she was, she found she still could not remember any of those reasons. Carefully moving closer, she lay her swimming head on his shoulder and an arm across his chest, and went back to sleep. Guilt and awkwardness might come later, but for now, she wanted nothing more than to enjoy the feeling of his warm skin against her own, the rise and fall of his chest, and the stirrings of new arousal she could just make out beneath the sheets. Perhaps it could even be posponed until after she had... dealt... with his need. After all, the horse was already out of the stable - she may as well enjoy the ride.

 


End file.
